


Sleeping With Ghosts

by slashmania



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst?, Drowning, Ghosts, I know I felt angst?, M/M, Moving On, Moving on is hard, Off-screen Character Death, Torture, Unconventional Relationship, apologetic editing throughout writing process, don't know what to call it, ghost whispering, its finished, not a happy ending but also not sad, oh look there's Mal, sorry - Freeform, still sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-05-25 07:41:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14972342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmania/pseuds/slashmania
Summary: His current client, because if he was going to be forced to handle jobs where he was called on by dead people, he'd fucking call them clients because he could handle that. Clients were familiar, clients were safe. Well maybe not always safe, but hell, Arthur's worked for clients who were almost worse than disembodied, sometimes angry ghosts still wearing the shape of their death to shock or scare those who were capable of seeing them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love it when I accidentally create a draft when its not even ready yet! Here is the trigger warning that will be included later, but reference now: references to (but not writing of) torture and obviously murder. I would console and say its all about plot development, but the truth is that I had a really bad day with a ton of anxiety and wanted to write something with a little humor but found all sorts of ugly emotions finding their way into the story line. So yeah, watch the tags.
> 
> And by the way, this actually isn't a Ghost Whisperer AU. I was just watching a marathon a couple of weeks ago and thought "Being a ghost whisperer must be really boring...its just repeating a bunch of things your ghost is saying...I bet I can write something funny with that!" Sort of, right?
> 
> Title of this work is taken from a song of the same name by Placebo. Will fix errors later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it was something Arthur knew Eames would have said if he was truly there. If Arthur truly was a stupid medium now. If his world was real and his totem was still working properly it all boiled down to one thing.
> 
> Arthur could talk to ghosts and Eames was dead. Somehow.
> 
> "That's right," Arthur managed to say. "I take all the fun out of being dead. I take all the fun out of everything. I don't let ghosts bother me when I'm naked, busy, or both."
> 
> And Eames smirked like Arthur knew he would. "But you'll make the exception for me, won't you?"
> 
> "Always, Mr. Eames," Arthur said, applauding his self-control and reserve, because it was taking an awful lot of it to stop him from crying on the spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...okay so this is apparently the amazing disappearing chapter note, so I've rewritten it.
> 
> I've reconsidered the Major Character Death tag and took it down, but left the "off-screen character death" tag. The brunt of this story deals with other triggers like torture and death. I've even changed the summary for this chapter so it says outright which character is dead: this is a story about Arthur somehow developing the ability to see and talk to ghosts. This is complicated when he learns that Eames has died.

It had been hard. Scheduling was usually thrown out the window when Arthur was accidentally found by a restless ghost. Arthur understood the concept in the broadest of strokes. He unwillingly possessed what some bastards tried to call a _gift_. Sure, it sounded wonderful in the abstract. Arthur helped the dead finally move on by connecting them with their remaining family members, righting the wrongs, or bringing to light the secrets that kept them earthbound. All so the they could go into the Light.

That was another thing. The capitalization of the term making _light_ a proper noun seemed to be very important though Arthur could care less.

He was a dream criminal, not a medium!

It didn't matter that he didn't have the training, the life experience, and sometimes the patience to deal with it. They kept appearing. And they wouldn't leave until Arthur did what was expected of him.

* * *

No one ever says that well over half the job of a ghost whisperer or medium was spent patiently repeating whatever the ghost was attempting to say to their remaining ties to the land of the living. So no one ever said that it was dreadfully _boring._

His current client, because if he was going to be forced to handle jobs where he was called on by dead people, he'd fucking call them clients because he could _handle_ that. Clients were familiar, clients were safe. Well maybe not always safe, but hell, Arthur's worked for clients who were almost worse than disembodied, sometimes angry ghosts still wearing the shape of their death to shock or scare those who were capable of seeing them.

Once the dead were aware that he could see them, they flocked to Arthur's side and told their stories. In the beginning when Arthur was so sure that he was dreaming, he'd frantically roll and roll his little red die as the ghost of the moment would wait for him to get over his crisis and acknowledge them. He still ignored them, but it got to a point where ghosts were waking him from a deep sleep by making something fall from his nightstand, then manifest with broken or bloody bodies, pleading their cases. Arthur drew the line when one repeat offender showed up with the head injury that killed him, ready to retell what he could recall and expected Arthur, who had been soaped up in the shower busy scrubbing away the dirt and aggravation of the day with his new loofah, to _not_ freak the fuck out and slip in the tub!

After that, the damned ghosts had to be more respectful of his privacy. They had to understand that he wasn't always ready to take care of their problems at the drop of a hat. And they had spread the word that no ghost was to magically appear near Arthur if the point man was naked. Or busy. Or busy _and_ naked.

Just because they were dead didn't mean that Arthur had to act like it...

So now, currently, he was listening to Hugh. Hugh needed Arthur to reach out to his still living wife- he was desperate to tell her that though he cheated on her, though he died with his mistress, he knew that she was the one he loved. The guilt of his mistreatment of her, of lying to her, was preventing him from moving on. He needed her to _know_ so he could go into the Light!

Arthur had done the footwork, found the wife, regretted how creepy being a medium made him sound, but found that this interaction could be so much worse. She was listening to Arthur's description, his almost verbatim recitation of what her dead husband was saying, nodding tearfully and looking over at the empty space where Arthur had gestured and said Hugh was standing. He could have pointed at the nearby tree they were standing next too in the public park and she'd be just as willing to believe that her dead husband was standing next to it.

Arthur was only half-listening now. He was thinking of the research he had to do for an upcoming extraction. Sure, he had all that money from the Fischer job. He didn't _have_ to do the extractions. He didn't have to do dreamshare anymore. But he liked it. He liked it so much more than listening to Hugh's wife sob, or catching the wonder in Hugh's voice as he said, "Wow...I- I think I see something? Is that the Light?"

Then Arthur heard a chuckle. Something warm and familiar that definitely didn't come from his client, or the client's former wife. Arthur frowned and looked around. Nothing, just a public park. It was practically empty of other people besides the occasional jogger, dog walker, or parents taking their kids to the nearby playground.

This new sense of his kind of _pinged_ as Arthur turned his head slightly to the left. He could feel _something_. A presence that had its own emotional signature. He was sure if he looked at it head-on it might disappear. Arthur was very cautious and spoke softly, sure that whoever it was would be able to hear him.

"If you need to speak to me, I'm almost finished here."

Arthur caught a flicker of something out of the corner of his eye. A new ghost appearing next to him. He could feel it now...an energy of a sort.

"I'm so glad you have the time for me, darling. This is rather unexpected..."

Arthur couldn't stop himself from looking now. He saw Eames standing beside him, close enough to touch though the other man made no effort to do so.

Arthur experienced some strangely conflicted emotions- he had never been happier to see the forger! He wanted to check his totem and speak to Eames and then wake up, because come on, realizing he was actually a medium meant to help guide the restless dead, offer them comfort or something? Being a ghost whisperer had to be the most bizarre thing he could have dreamed up being, so maybe he'd have to challenge Eames's opinion of him. Arthur  _had_ to have imagination if this is what he tricked himself into believing in a dream.

"I'm in Limbo, aren't I?" Arthur asked the forger, hoping the the answer was yes. After what happened with Cobb and Saito, Arthur knew there was a way out of Limbo. And with Eames at his side, he'd probably get out much faster too. The point man felt a pang of something. He watched the way Eames's familiar features twisted as some emotion, too quick to be caught and held, flitted across his face. There was a ripple, a shudder in Eames's form. For a second Arthur wasn't sure what he was feeling.

Being around what he thought were ghosts for months and months, listening to their problems as he learned how to be a medium _and_ balance his regular job as a point man taught Arthur to notice very distinctive aspects of the ghosts who came to him for help.

The sobbing wife didn't even notice what was happening, but deep in his heart, Arthur knew that if she looked over his way all she'd see is the kind (her words, not Arthur's) young man who made those calls and spoke to her about her husband. From her perspective, Arthur was _alone._

A way for Arthur to be sure would be to reach out and touch him. Even he couldn't touch the dead. So Arthur reached out and tried to pluck at the material of Eames's shirt sleeve.

The forger watched him, not surprised as Arthur's fingers pinched through the fabric, pinching air, touching absolutely nothing.

"I know you're busy right now, Arthur," Eames said as Arthur grew very still. "I've heard from the others about your rules. The waiting list," then Eames's eyes sparked with that old familiar humor. He pouted. "But I've also heard some nonsense about how we're not to bother you when you're naked. Why do you have to take all the fun out of being dead, darling?"

This shocked a short, sort of flat laugh out of Arthur. His stomach twisted the second after it happened and he wasn't ready to have to explain to Hugh's wife why he just laughed. He didn't want to explain because what Eames, or what was attempting to be Eames, wasn't very funny.

But it was something Arthur knew Eames would have said if he was truly there. If Arthur truly was a stupid medium now. If his world was real and his totem was still working properly it all boiled down to one thing.

Arthur could talk to ghosts and Eames was _dead._  Somehow.

"That's right," Arthur managed to say. "I take all the fun out of being dead. I take all the fun out of everything. I don't let ghosts bother me when I'm naked, busy, or both."

And Eames smirked like Arthur knew he would. "But you'll make the exception for me, won't you?"

"Always, Mr. Eames," Arthur said, applauding his self-control and reserve, because it was taking an awful lot of it to stop him from crying on the spot.

 _He's a client_ , Arthur thought to himself. _A g_ _host client you knew when he was still alive. You worked together. You occasionally slept together. But this doesn't have to be awkward._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why are you here, Eames?"
> 
> "Free cable and excellent conversation."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like garbage and thought writing a little something might make me feel better.
> 
> Errors everywhere. I'll fix them later.

When Arthur was finished saying goodbye to Hugh's wife, he walked back to his car and wasn't surprised to find Eames waiting beside it.

"Care to give me a lift?"

Arthur unlocked the driver's side door, closed it, and then buckled up.

"You're capable of going anywhere within a second."

Eames had materialized in the front passenger seat. He didn't bother with his seat belt.

"True, but what if I don't know your address?"

Arthur didn't explain that he'd run into ghosts who had learned many things about him with little effort. Ghosts, Arthur had learned, _loved_ the Internet. They loved technology. They could access information in some way that Arthur couldn't define yet, and when asked, the ghosts couldn't give better explanations than _I wanted to know, and then I did._

He'd made other rules for his ghostly clients. He told them to stop digging around in his personal information. Stop trying to force him to do things for him by referring to painful things that were in public records. His father's suicide and his mother's heart disease were off the table. If they could manage to link Arthur to any dreamshare related dealings (which Arthur was far too careful to allow any former job to become common knowledge attached to any of his identities or personas) it lead to more manipulation. Ghosts had tried to flatter him, to guilt him into "doing the right thing" after all of his specialized criminal activity!

But Eames clearly wouldn't do that.

"You could have found it, but you've never been known to show up unannounced or uninvited."

Eames smiled at Arthur, getting comfortable in his seat while Arthur started the car.

He said nothing, which meant that the car ride was probably going to be a little tense. The one thing Arthur wanted to ask was why Eames had come to him. He wasn't behaving like a ghost eager to go into the Light. But sometimes ghosts weren't so much eager to go into the Light as they were focused on the one thing they brought to Arthur's attention. The problem, the person to call, the error that had to be fixed, and _then_ realized that they saw it. That what was tying them down or preventing them from moving on was suddenly gone!

Rather than ask Eames why he was there, Arthur instead asked if he wanted to listen to the radio.

* * *

"Why are you here, Eames?"

"Free cable and excellent conversation." 

Arthur frowned at the ghost on his couch. After carefully examining Arthur's remote control, Eames had forced the buttons to move. He'd turned on the television. He'd channel surfed. Then he settled on a cooking show, the volume turned down low.

"But if we take away the cable and the conversation, you're still here on the physical plane. Why are you still here, Eames?"

Eames vanished from the couch. He appeared in front of Arthur, who didn't even flinch at the sudden movement. 

"I'm dead, darling." 

"...do you remember anything about that? Do you need me to find the ones who did this?"

Eames grew very still.

"I'd rather not talk about it. If I think about it too much, I lose what control I have."

Eames's image at the moment was so close to what he looked like in life that Arthur had to stop himself from reaching out to touch him. But if Arthur watched carefully, he'd see how the edges of Eames's body would flicker before smoothing out again.

There wasn't an easy way to navigate this part of the conversation. If Eames spoke about it, remembered everything, he could easily change his physical appearance to match what he looked like after he died. Eames was holding onto his living image so tightly that Arthur didn't even want to speculate on any other image...

"Then we'll not bother with that question," Arthur said. "We'll move on to something else." Arthur had a moment where he wished he could explain how weird this still was.

"I've done this several times now. It's been months and months of ghosts coming by asking for my help. I don't even know why this is happening to me. So, we'll go through all the questions and we'll figure out why you're here and where you want to go."

Eames brightened up almost immediately. "Oh, I know why I'm here, Arthur!"

Arthur was so relieved. He hated having to dig for information. He hated playing detective, even when he was a child! "That's as good a place to start as any, Eames."

"I'm here because once I became _aware_ of my state you were the one I wanted to see." 

Arthur stared. "What?" 

Eames moved past Arthur's shock, set on telling him exactly what brought him to the point man's side. "Yes. I know its a little strange, but I couldn't help it. After what happened," Eames said, purposefully not giving any details, "I wanted to be here. I wanted to be next to you. I thought about never being able to see you again, or talk to you again. Then I was in the park!"

"You're not trying to go into the Light?"

"To be honest I only thought as far as you. Going into the light isn't a priority to me."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You want to know how you can help?"
> 
> Arthur closed his eyes. "Yeah, I do. I want to know what happened."
> 
> "See," Eames began, voice steady and calm, but the feeling in the room was nothing but tension. "I may not remember everything about what happened but there are things that come back, and things that stay, and others that sort of nudge me as I'm doing something else so I get thrown back into the moment I was still kind of alive, but closer to being dead. It was a job. That much I can recall. It was a job that went bad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a note on my personal life as it influences my writing:
> 
> I'm having a bad day because I have a shitty neighbor who yells at me and calls me names and there's almost nothing I can do about it but hide. And usually when I'm having a bad day at least fanfiction can boost my mood, but its not working as much as I'd like. 
> 
> Originally I was going to update something else because I'm behind and wanted a love story that wasn't full of death, or dead people, or even ghosts. But now I don't even feel like I'm in the right mindset to work on another installment of my Sandman AU, or even another story based off of a Ludo song.
> 
> Then I sat down ready to write buckets of angst and pain. Then there was grief. And then I tossed in love again because I can't stop myself. Its a strange chapter, but I sort of like where it went. Even the painful bits.
> 
> ** And I found the errors or weirdly phrased sentences and fixed them...I'm sorry, the anxiety sometimes get the better of me, though that isn't even a decent excuse for writing like crap.

Arthur made dinner. Eames watched Arthur make dinner.

Arthur had never felt more awkward as he seared a steak, prepared pasta, and put together a salad. He felt rude at first for making enough only for one, then realized half-way through that there was going to be plenty for two, but that only one person was still capable of eating anything.

Of course he'd save the other half. Leftovers were never a bad thing, but he couldn't stop himself from looking over at Eames when he realized his mistake. The other man didn't bother to hide his smile.

Even though Eames wasn't eating, he still sat across from Arthur at the table. He had a place setting, even though he wasn't eating. He had his own glass of wine, too. As Arthur had begun to eat, Eames had amused himself by pressing his finger against, but not through, the rim of his wine glass. Curious, Arthur watched as Eames focused on the glass, increasing the pressure and waiting for something to happen. He was carefully moving one finger against the rim of his wineglass.

Eames's patience was rewarded by the mellow tone he coaxed from his wineglass. He caught Arthur watching him and sent a smile his way.

Arthur held a forkful of pasta that was in danger of plopping back onto his plate, lightly sauced piece by lightly sauced piece.

"How are you doing that?"

Eames shrugged as he removed his fingers from the rim of the wineglass. "Not so sure, really. I shouldn't be able to move anything at all, but I can. I'm nothing but energy now. Particles. I'm nothing but quarks and electrons, but I've got memories and feelings and thoughts." Eames frowned. "It would be a little easier if I didn't have to worry over such a thing, but I guess this is my life now; I get to wonder over the state of my nonexistence as I play on a wineglass at your dinner table. If you get some more glasses and fill them to the levels I suggest, I can play you a song. I used to be really good at playing the Star Trek theme!"

Arthur laughed, then felt bad about laughing at all. Eames was too damned perceptive in life. He still had that perceptive edge now, too. "Oh Arthur, stop that! You're allowed to laugh! That was the whole point of my comment. You need to laugh more."

"But you're dead," Arthur said lamely. He was unable to come up with another answer or another thing to say. "I don't feel like laughing, okay? I can't even begin to process this! You're dead and you've come to me, but you don't want to move on. And saying you wanted to see me? That you would miss talking to me? Neither of those things give me much of an idea about how I can help!"

Arthur dropped the fork onto his plate, pushed the plate away, and then stood up. He wanted to leave. His mother, bless her heart, the poor woman, would give him hell for treating a guest like this. Thankfully she was far away and couldn't bring him to heel, harshly whispering in his ear about how she hadn't known she'd raised an animal instead of a polite, respectful young man.

Arthur was thinking of her as he turned away, so he didn't hear the sound Eames made as he vanished, then reappeared a few steps behind Arthur's back.

"You want to know how you can help?"

Arthur closed his eyes. "Yeah, I do. I want to know what happened."

"See," Eames began, voice steady and calm, but the feeling in the room was nothing but tension. "I may not remember everything about what happened but there are things that come back, and things that stay, and others that sort of nudge me as I'm doing something else so I get thrown back into the moment I was still kind of alive, but closer to being dead. It was a job. That much I can recall. It was a job that went _bad_."

Arthur had this sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Someone sold you out," Arthur said. If this is what was expected out of him, if this was the way he had to help Eames, then he'd have to go through the motions and they'd talk about how he died. Arthur had asked for it...

Eames laughed, but it was hollow. "As far as I can tell, yes! Someone sold me out...to someone. Oh they didn't like me very much, Arthur. It comes back to me in flashes- that's why I have to hold on so tightly to what I used to look like. If I don't, I slip."

Arthur was about to turn to look at Eames, but he felt a pressure against one shoulder that forced him to stop. Arthur wouldn't turn to look at Eames, but he was becoming aware of something happening to him. Around him. He should be getting used to it, but he was still too new at being a medium.

The last time he was given a taste of a ghost's death, was made to experience it, it had been like in the early days of the PASIV research. Because Arthur had known back then that the death he experienced in the dream wasn't going to bleed over into his physical body. The last time he felt the shadow of a ghost's death, it was a man who was shot in the head during a bank robbery and needed Arthur's help to bring his killer to justice.

In the couple of seconds it lasted, Arthur learned the man's fear. He had too many sense memories about guns and being shot, so even if he knew what it felt like to take a gunshot to the head in a dream, it didn't change the way it felt when translated from someone who really died from it.

There was something wrong with his face. He was getting sensory, but not visuals from whatever Eames was reliving. Arthur bit his lip and tried to ignore the feeling. It was like something was cutting into his face, cutting to the bone.

"They didn't like my face," Eames was saying, and it became clear what the cutting meant. "I was handed off to somebody, Arthur. I was carved up, and of course they could say that it was to hide my identity if my body was ever found, but that wasn't true at all. It was amazing, but I was still alive when they put me in the water."

"Where were you? Where did they take you?" Arthur was thinking through the pain still echoing between them. _I'll find his body,_ Arthur thought fiercely. _I'll find his body and bury it properly. I'll kill the people who hurt him, I will!_

Arthur was so cold, he began to shiver. He no longer felt that pressure against his shoulder, but refused to look back. Eames didn't want that. He didn't want Arthur to see him like that.

Arthur could smell salt water, he could smell blood, and he had to stop himself from choking once he experienced the feeling of water rushing into his lungs. He began to cough on nothing and reached out to steady himself against the nearby counter. The memories were too strong to ignore- he was awake and couldn't tell himself that it would all be over once he woke up.

"You were beaten, tortured, and then drowned," Arthur said, his voice a little hoarse. "And when you regained awareness all you thought of was me."

Eames's voice was soft. Apologetic and soft, but there was something firm running through his voice like a ribbon of steel. "My memory is still spotty, but you were one of the first things that came back to me when I could remember there was a _me_ in the first place. A death like that takes something away. I needed my identity back. I needed to be around you again, even if you couldn't see or hear me. I would have hung around and watched you do lots of meaningless little every day things. Or I'd follow you on a job. Because in a way, you've always made me feel safer."

Arthur cleared his throat. "Its what a point man's supposed to to, Eames. Apparently it's something your last point man failed at. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I pushed."

 _I'm sorry I wasn't there_ , Arthur thought, but couldn't say to Eames.

"I need you to understand that this isn't a game I'm playing with you. I'm not conning you. I'm not running any kind of job. I'm just dead and wanted someone familiar to remind me of who I used to be."

"But then you learned that I can do this _thing_ now. I can hear and speak to dead people."

"I'll admit that it did brighten up my original thought. One-sided conversations are boring. This way we can interact, darling."

Arthur turned to face Eames. Eames was still and quiet as Arthur examined his face. He couldn't see the cuts. He couldn't smell the blood. Eames was bone dry. All traces of his death had been wiped away leaving him as pristine as Arthur remembered him. To him, Eames was perfect. Eames was attractive, smart, and...Eames _was._

Arthur couldn't help it. He found himself brushing away a few of the tears he'd been able to bite back during their meeting in the park. When Eames looked at him in worry, struggling to come up with something he could do to help, Arthur waved him away.

"It's just a lot to take in, I'll be fine in a minute."

"It's okay," Eames was saying, sliding a roll of paper towels across the counter top since he couldn't brush away Arthur's tears himself.

Arthur ripped a paper towel off the roll. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. "I want to help you even if you don't think you need to move on. The trauma of your death is obviously keeping you stuck on the physical plane. You've already told me that you don't want me to find your killers. What other unfinished business could you have?"

Eames smiled. If Arthur were honest, that smile would be his favorite smile because of how open it was- unguarded, really. While Eames wasn't self-conscious about his crooked teeth, he spent so much more of his time wearing other smiles as other people that it was refreshing to see a genuine _Eames_ smile.

"Remember when I said that moving on wasn't a priority? Well, I thought it was obvious that you were."

"What?"

"A priority! We've been together for _how many years?_ I just feel that my sudden death has cut our relationship short."

Arthur knew it was coming but couldn't stop it. Eames smirked (Arthur's second favorite facial expression from the forger) and said, "Haven't you ever wanted to sleep with a ghost?"

Arthur crumpled up the paper towel he'd used as a tissue. He found himself saying a word that his mother used frequently when frustrated.

"Hush," Arthur sighed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So some of Eames's worry was vanity. More of Eames's worry was what Arthur would think once he'd seen the damage. The last thing he wanted was for Arthur to really see what he looked like as a ghost. He didn't want to needlessly hurt Arthur, but considering the man's reaction upon seeing him in the park, then the tears when he stopped dancing around the finality of Eames's existence, it wasn't something that could be avoided neatly or easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm only writing because I just got to listen to that same neighbor talking to another person about what a bitch I am.
> 
> (deep breath) 
> 
> So I made myself a deal. If I stay calm and write, ignore what he's going to continue saying, I can also read five chapters of "One Hundred Ways to Say..." by nolaespoir. If you haven't read it, my god, read it now! I may be using it as a reward for fighting my anxiety, but its still a delightful read for anyone who isn't feeling anxious too!

The forger stayed exactly where he was. Arthur wouldn't appreciate being followed out of the kitchen. Arthur probably wouldn't think it was polite if Eames walked through the closed bathroom door.

Eames was certain that it wouldn't violate Arthur's rule about not being bothered while he was naked. Arthur had only wanted to clean himself up a little, maybe splash some water on his face. In private.

Eames would remain rooted to the spot and wait for the point man's return because he'd _made him cry_. Though Eames wasn't going to say it out loud, he would categorize Arthur's small kitchen as the place he was to have a time-out. He'd overstepped his bounds, he'd said too much, and he upset Arthur!

That was the one that stung the most. Eames may have the dubious blessing of an inconsistent memory when it related to his death, but he'd never be able to forget the sound of Arthur's voice as he experienced something of Eames's death, something that Eames _felt_ during that. Talking about it hadn't helped him handle revisiting the memory, or of taking that shape again.

He couldn't touch Arthur the way he used to, but charged with that much energy, that much emotion, he'd only manged enough pressure to make sure Arthur didn't turn to see what Eames's face had looked like before he'd been thrown into the water. It wasn't pretty, but if he focused on it too much it'd break through what he saw as the equivalent of a forgery.

Pressing his hands against his face, Eames was sure he could feel the cuts and gashes etched into his skin, into his skull. Phantom pains for a phantom, Eames thought as he pressed harder and counted to ten. He didn't know when Arthur was going to come back. It was very unlikely that Arthur would run away by jumping out of his own bathroom window, so Eames had to make sure that Arthur didn't catch a glimpse of what he'd only felt during their moment of sharing.

Eames forcefully recalled what he used to look like. A picture would have helped, but men in their line of work didn't take or keep photos. He had to remember what he'd looked like when he was with Arthur, and when he was still alive. Long before he'd ever signed up to take the job that would get him killed and ruin any chance of him continuing a relationship with Arthur, navigating them from being coworkers who occasionally slept together, to coworkers who dated, to coworkers who stopped calling each other coworkers at all and settled on another term that fit them better if they were romantic. Something more than friends with benefits.

Partners, lovers, boyfriends, beaus.

Before, Arthur had loved Eames's face. He may not have said it out-loud, but when they were together he'd spend enough of their sometimes alcohol-laced interludes pressing kisses against Eames's lips, cheeks, and eyes. Arthur would say something then, something like, "I love your face. _Your_ face. Not another person's face on top of yours, you know?"

He'd say stuff about Eames's character or his bone structure. He'd compliment his nose. He'd call it a Roman nose, and say that Eames's profile could go on a coin.

So some of Eames's worry was vanity. More of Eames's worry was what Arthur would think once he'd seen the damage. The last thing he wanted was for Arthur to really _see_ what he looked like as a ghost. He didn't want to needlessly hurt Arthur, but considering the man's reaction upon seeing him in the park, then the tears when he stopped dancing around the finality of Eames's existence, it wasn't something that could be avoided neatly or easily.

Eames understood that he was dead. He understood that this wasn't going to be easy on Arthur. But how did Eames know that he would be seen and heard by the point man? While he was still in what Eames would call a transitional phase of being dead, but still present, lost and directionless, he'd run into other ghosts who'd recommended a medium. That there was a handsome medium with all these rules about time management, but he still was one of the best. Eames hadn't given it a second thought. He'd want the best to help him out. He'd want the best to find Arthur. The two combined helped him find his way to the right person, even if that was quasi-coincidental.

Not a single ghost had said anything else to help identify Arthur as the mysterious medium.

But the whole thing still brought Eames's intentions into question. What could he do? What could he say? He'd already tried to explain that Arthur was his priority. Specifically if he had to choose between spending more time with Arthur or going into the Light, he'd go for Arthur first.

He loved Arthur. He did. He just wished he had more time during his life to spend with Arthur, but that didn't work out.

Eames didn't want to move on just yet. And Arthur? Well, Arthur was facing his own battle with that.

Moving on, grieving, going into the Light. It might as well all mean the same damn thing.

For now Eames would be content to not see Arthur cry again. Not over him. Not now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur made it back to the kitchen he was met with the sight of Eames attempting to move dirty dishes into a sink full of hot, soapy water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is better, but at least I have fic. I'm trying to come up with a satisfying ending that won't take too long. I'm supposed to be working on something else (I'll get to it...eventually).

Arthur wasn't hiding in the bathroom. He wasn't.

After he'd closed and locked the door behind him, he'd stood uncertainly in the small tiled room and looked around. All normal things in here, he observed. There's the shower curtain, there's the loofah. There's the toilet, the toilet brush in its little stand. There's the sink. There's the chipped mirror. There's the razor from his morning shave.

Arthur rinsed the razor, tapping it on the side of the sink to get the excess water off of it, then placed it next to the soap dish.

He looked at his drawn and pale reflection in the mirror. He turned on the water again, making it hotter than he preferred. He didn't want to feel cold water against his face right now. He didn't need to be taken back into that moment. The phantom sensations a moderately powerful ghost could loan him were difficult to separate from his own. Arthur knew the truth. He hadn't been harmed, he hadn't been cut, and he hadn't been thrown into the cold, cold ocean.

But he still splashed lukewarm water on his face.

After Arthur was finished drying his face, taking a few deep breaths, and halfheartedly considered cleaning the toilet bowl while he was there, Arthur quit procrastinating and finally left the bathroom.

* * *

 

When Arthur made it back to the kitchen he was met with the sight of Eames attempting to move dirty dishes into a sink full of hot, soapy water.

Arthur was tempted to watch. Eames, concentrating so hard on moving singular objects, didn't notice Arthur's return, or how he stood in the doorway and watched the ghost work.

"I really can't take too much attention off of this saucepan," Eames said, not taking his eyes off of the silver saucepan Arthur used to cook the pasta. The ghost was holding the saucepan carefully, as if he were certain that he'd break it. Or drop it.

Considering the skills ghosts had manipulating physical objects either option could be likely, but it seemed that Eames was more worried over dropping it.

"I thought that I'd do the washing up while you were away," Eames said once he finally got the saucepan into the sink, setting it up to soak with a few other items. "I didn't touch your place setting. Are you still hungry, darling?"

Arthur looked at the previously appetizing dinner he'd put together, but shook his head. He wasn't hungry anymore.

"I'll take care of it," Arthur said. "I can save some of it with the rest of the leftovers."

There was silence and it appeared that neither was certain how to fill it.

Arthur cleared his throat and asked, "Want a watch a movie later?"

Eames grinned. "Of course!" He was already looking for a large bowl. "I'll make the popcorn, and you choose the movie."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm only writing because someone trapped me inside my home by getting a shopping cart wedged underneath my doorknob so I couldn't open it. Don't worry, I got out eventually (the really cute, perplexed fireman moved the cart for me and suggested it was a prank).
> 
> So I got my coffee. I sent an email. I talked to another neighbor who promised to set it right if she saw it happen again. And now I'm here writing the happiest thing I can think of. Basically Arthur and Eames spending time together.

Though Arthur had checked and rechecked the listings, it seemed that there were far too many movies playing that featured ghosts. He'd thought that he'd find _something_ that didn't touch the subject. Eames was sitting on the couch next to Arthur, watching all the ghost-related options that Arthur scrolled through as quickly as possible. Eames still found a way to comment on them.

 _"A Nightmare on Elm Street_ was a classic."

"I loved Michael J. Fox in _The Frighteners."_

 _"Beetlejuice_ is my personal favorite."

"Ugh, _Ghost_ _?_ I _still_ can't get that song out of my head!"

"Don't ghostbust me for liking _Ghostbusters,_ darling!"

"I ain't afraid of no ghost." Arthur responded without thinking because banter was always and forever going to be their thing, even if one of them was dead.

"Well if you don't want to watch scary movies or funny movies, we could choose a heartfelt one instead. I mean if all cable will give you right now is ghost themed movies, we could watch _Field of Dreams."_

Finally, Arthur agreed. "It looks much better than _The Sixth Sense, Poltergeist, The Shining,_ or _The Orphanage."_

 _"The_ _Orphanage_  is excellent, Arthur."

The point man nodded. "I know it is. But it's sad. _Field of Dreams_ can be a little sad, but at least there's baseball to balance it out."

* * *

 

The movie went well. Many things after that night went well.

It was all about adjusting to the situation.

Though Eames wouldn't call himself a personal assistant, he did begin fielding a lot of the requests from other ghosts to free up Arthur's time.

If Arthur was busy doing research for a job, or taking some personal time on a day off, Eames would divert the eager ghosts and ask that they come by later or leave a message with him.

"You'll tell him?" One particularly insistent ghost said. He'd wring his hands if he'd manifested with hands, so instead he gestured with his arms. "Because this is really important! They can't identify my body for obvious reasons and-"

Eames narrowed his eyes and said, "He will see you later. And my god, stop wearing your death like that! You think he _wants_ to see another person like this?"

The ghost looked at his arms. He frowned. "But I'm not a person anymore, right? I'm _dead_."

"And there's no need to rub it in everyone's face! If you can't come back here wearing a shape that isn't graphic or shocking, I'll have to ask you to come back _only_ when its possible."

The ghost was suitably chastened, and though it took some time he managed to show up with working appendages in all the right places.

To be honest, Eames was likely going to be labeled Arthur's personal assistant anyway.

* * *

 

"You don't have to keep doing it," Arthur said.

"But I'd like to make this easier for you," Eames insisted. "If I'm not going to go into the Light, I should try and do something useful. Besides its not like I can take jobs anymore."

And Arthur was sympathetic, but he didn't have a better answer.

* * *

 

Until he was working a job and Eames appeared.

It happened spontaneously, if you listened to the way Eames described it.

"One second, I was politely telling a client that you were unavailable. Then I was pulled _here_."

Arthur was busy reloading his gun two levels down in a Wild West themed extraction gone bad. His white hat had been shot off by the marks gunmen, he'd dove behind an upended table in their dreamed-up saloon hideout, and found Eames waiting for him there.

"Fascinating, Mr. Eames," Arthur said before returning fire, picking off the guys in black hats who had been so close to kicking him out of the dream and messing up what was supposed to be a pretty good payout. Arthur ducked behind the table once more.

Turns out the mark who owned the secret recipe of a best-selling barbecue sauce was also a fan of Spaghetti Westerns. It was something Arthur had been prepared for, but knew would be difficult.The team was okay. They were all doing the specific things needed for the job. The extractor was digging around for the recipe while Arthur drew the mark's attention away from the poking and prodding the extractor's efforts would lead to. There was the architect on the first level holding things together. But no forger had been qualified or skilled enough to be the welcome distraction Arthur needed during a fight...

So maybe that's why Eames was here. Inexplicably. Magically, even.

"I think you need some breathing room, darling." And Eames got it. He understood because he was once the best forger in dreamshare. And who said a little thing like death was going to prevent a forger from pulling off what once had been a normal skill in the _anything is fucking possible_ setting created by shared dreams.

Who said ghost's couldn't dream?

When Arthur looked at Eames again, he'd noticed that he'd made specific changes to his physical appearance, gender, and dress.

"You look very pretty, Mr. Eames."

"Now its time to distract them," Eames said now forging a beautiful blonde. Maybe a barmaid. Maybe a whore. It didn't matter which as long as the projections accepted her in this setting.

As soon as Eames stepped up from behind the table, all shooting stopped. Then Eames began to use the conversation starter he almost always used when wearing his "lovely lady" forgery. She was versatile, sexual, smoldering. People would die to keep her attention.

"Am I boring you?" Eames said, addressing the armed men around the saloon. "I was telling you my story. I guess it wasn't to your liking."

With Eames now the center of attention, Arthur was able to crawl away and meet up with the extractor outside.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was frustrating to want to touch the point man. With enough thought and energy, Eames was capable of moving other solid objects. Just not living, breathing people. Just not Arthur."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I like titling chapters with the lyrics of a song that influenced or inspired a fic, I dropped them from this work. "Sleeping with Ghosts" by Placebo really isn't a very long song, any way.
> 
> Just a short chapter.

Eames slipped into Arthur's room, following after a ghost that had decided to avoid the tedium of waiting, making an appointment, and relearning how to not manifest wearing their often bloody or horrific deaths.

Eames could move silently. He moved as quietly as only the dead can. It was pretty damn quiet. He then timed his quick here-then-there shifting so he'd appear right in front of the ghost trying to disturb Arthur's sleep.

The wide-eyed tween ghost nearly flickered out of visibility when Eames got in her way. He glared and silently pointed to the door.

"But," she began, at least trying to whisper. "I need help-"

Eames pointed to the door again. She took the hint and meekly left, heading out the door to wait in the living room.

Thankfully Arthur hadn't woken up during the interception. He was peacefully snuffling into his pillow. Eames forced himself to not watch Arthur sleep. It made him feel creepy. He already felt creepy enough as a ghost...

But he stayed a moment longer just to make sure Arthur stayed asleep.

The point man truly was exhausted. Between another dreamshare job and all the ghost stuff, Arthur was running himself ragged. The fitful way he tossed and turned hinted that Arthur was attempting to solve problems even as he slept. Most likely unwillingly, of course. His subconscious was probably a riot of activity. Poor Arthur.

Eames tried to brush one of Arthur's rebelliously sleep-mussed curls away from his brow. He saw his fingertips brush _through_ Arthur's hair, and jerked his hand away before he accidentally passed his fingers through Arthur's head.

It was unsettling enough that Eames forced himself to leave Arthur's bedside and be content with the fact that Arthur would get uninterrupted sleep. Eames stood several feet away from Arthur's bed.

It was frustrating to want to touch the point man. With enough thought and energy, Eames was capable of moving other solid objects. Just not living, breathing people. Just not Arthur. He also knew that it was just as frustrating for Arthur. Though he and Arthur hadn't had the most physically demonstrative relationship, they had moments (moments that weren't just sexual encounters) where they'd touch in a platonic sort of way. Pleasantly, really. Like if Eames had entered their workspace and found Arthur still sitting where he'd left him _hours_ ago working on the same project, Eames would stand behind the point man's chair and give him a shoulder rub. He'd tease him or pester Arthur into taking a break. He'd make Arthur eat a meal with him, or take a break from work to stretch his legs.

Now all Eames could do was appear at Arthur's side and politely remind him when he'd last eaten, that he'd been working for several uninterrupted hours. Didn't he want a break?

Eames couldn't give a shoulder rub, he couldn't relieve the other man's stress in any of the other ways they'd perfected in each other's company when Eames was still alive.

It made him feel inadequate, but that was why he tried so hard to help Arthur with the ghost stuff. He knew all about being flexible where it counted; he had to be able to fit this new role, he had to find a way around the obstacle his death presented.

Then Arthur woke up.

The point man blinked sleepy eyes in Eames's direction. He noticed the distance between them, and looked around the room.

"Everything okay?"

Eames nodded. "I had to shoo away a teenage ghost who didn't respect the rules. I'm sorry-" Eames stopped as he apologized, almost not sure what he was apologizing for exactly. That he'd failed to be the perfect ghostly guard? That he happened to be in the room when Arthur woke in the middle of the night? "I'll let you get back to sleep, darling."

But Arthur was already sitting up in his bed. He was shoving away the covers when Eames ventured closer.

"Don't worry about it, I've got everything in hand. You can rest up and take care of it tomorrow."

Arthur shook his head. "No, I'll speak to her now. I'll get it over with."

Eames had to move to the side to get out of Arthur's path. Arthur was forcing himself to get up. He grabbed the bathrobe that hung from a hook in the closet, he put it on, and then went to open his closed bedroom door. But before he did it, he turned to look at Eames and said, "Thank you for keeping an eye out for me. I promise I'll be back in a minute."

But it wasn't a minute. Eames kept his distance and lingered in Arthur's bedroom to give them privacy. He still heard bits and pieces of her sad story. She told Arthur about her death, about the things she hadn't had a chance to do. From the sounds of it, Arthur was listening and making brief comments as he brewed a pot of tea. The scratching of a pen on paper punctuated their talk, Arthur taking specific notes so he could work on her case later.

He'd be stuck out there for a bit.

Eames didn't want to go out there and frighten the young ghost into silence. That would only make Arthur's job harder. But Eames also didn't want to stay inside this room. The bed looked inviting, and the blankets were probably still warm from the heat of Arthur's body. Eames didn't feel the cold anymore, but the thought of being wrapped up in something of Arthur's was incredibly tempting.

It was hard to resist it, so instead of waiting around in Arthur's bedroom, Eames left Arthur's home entirely.

It was one of the rare moments when he wanted to be alone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to be alone," Eames said as politely as he could manage. "Go find your own beach to haunt."
> 
> "Your bones aren't buried here," the intruding ghost said, her voice accented. There was something about a French accent that made the most macabre thing sort of romantic too. It was all about the delivery of such a line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for about a month I've swayed between deciding to delete this or continue pecking away at the idea. Since I'm starting school again I thought an update for this one can't be such a bad choice. I even have a vague idea of how to end this story in a vaguely satisfying way! So the story is still being written but will now officially have a WIP tag so readers aren't strung along for however long it's going to take me to complete this along with every other thing I have to work on for classes, incomplete assignments, and NaNo (maybe).
> 
> **I'm sorry. I repeat myself a lot in this chapter just to force myself to write at all. And I threw a curve ball at the end. The idea just came to me today while I was thinking about the movie.

Weeks turned to months.

Sometimes Eames liked to be alone. He'd leave the apartment, he'd give Arthur some space, and he'd just go somewhere else.

What Eames never told Arthur was that sometimes he'd see something that kind of looked like it might be the Light.

It really didn't happen all that often, and so far he was grateful it didn't occur when he was in Arthur's company, because the point man would obviously see it happening and think it was Eames's time to go...

When he caught sight of it when alone, Eames tried not to imagine what Arthur would look like if he were present. Would he look hurt? Sad? Relieved?

His presence couldn't be very comforting for Arthur. At least, not all the time. Arthur had grieved for him. He'd cried. He'd offered to do right by him and was politely refused by Eames. And for all the times he unintentionally put strain or tension in their new relationship, he spent more time coming up with ways to make Arthur's life easier. Eames tried to remove, shift, and reduce the point man's stress.

When he figured that he was a stress, Eames removed himself.

Over the months of interacting with dead people, Eames had learned a surprising amount of things he'd never have guessed as a living man. Like the ways that a death was capable of tying a person to a specific spot; it was common for some ghosts to linger where their remains were, where there had been some kind of powerful, traumatic energy signature that forced them to stay within range of that spot. Those ghosts were fairly lucky if Arthur was in range of them to notice their cries for help. If he got them what they needed and helped them find the Light, they'd be freed from that spot and allowed to move on.

There were others who were tied to people. Loved ones, murderers, witnesses. Those were heartbreaking. Ghost children trailed uncertainly after their parents. And kind of family-oriented haunting was disturbing and sad. Victims haunted their killers. And lovers, young and old, married or not, stayed behind to watch over their better halves.

If Eames were tied to the physical location of his death and burial, he'd be stuck out in some ocean, prowling the sea floor, scaring whoever was stupid enough to go down that deep. Though mostly fish of some kind would be his only company. Eames might not have minded if he'd trailed after his killer. Or killers, to be accurate. But he also had a sneaking suspicion that it would grow tiresome to scare them and not have them know why any of it was happening...he was sure that none of them had whatever edge or skill that would have allowed them to catch a glimpse of him enacting his revenge. It took what little pleasure was to be had out of it.

So it made sense that his need for Arthur, his hope to see him and then his arrival at his side, placed Eames firmly in the lost lover category of ghosts. Not that it was so surprising. He already knew that. Of course he loved Arthur. He'd said how he'd wanted more time with him. How their time had been tragically cut short. But the original thought about holding onto his identity through Arthur, through their relationship, clinging to the relationship they'd had- it made Eames still feel terribly selfish.

When it got to be too much, he'd take himself for a walk.

* * *

Well, "walk" wasn't exactly what he did. He vanished from point a, materialized at point b, and then began walking as if it was perfectly normal. Just a ghost taking a stroll!

Eames manifested on the beach. Not even on the path for dedicated joggers or bicyclists, really. He found himself on the sand, closer to the water than the last time he'd appeared there. He tried not to read into it. It wasn't like his attachments were shifting. He wasn't moving further away from Arthur just so he could get closer to where his physical remains had been dumped. This could easily be a coincidence. He'd likely not appear at the site of his death just because he'd appeared on the nearest shoreline several times within the same month, inching closer and closer to the water.

But Eames was determined to do what he'd said he was going to do. He wanted to walk and think. He wanted to be alone.

So he was fairly surprised when he noticed someone walking at his side. He caught a bit of what they looked like out of his peripheral vision, not wanting to glance over really. The goal of this walk was reflection, isolation, and so on and so on.

"I want to be alone," Eames said as politely as he could manage. "Go find your own beach to haunt."

"Your bones aren't buried here," the intruding ghost said, her voice accented. There was something about a French accent that made the most macabre thing sort of romantic too. It was all about the delivery of such a line.

"If we find yours next to a sandcastle," Eames asked, "does that mean I have to forfeit the beach to you?"

He finally looked at the female ghost.

The shade of Mal Cobb was walking at his side. She was unperturbed, though Eames was certain his wide eyes and partially open mouth told her all she needed to know about how _he_ felt.

"We need to talk," Mal said to him.

Eames didn't even think to refuse her.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're lucky he has room in his schedule this week to meet with another ghost client. Can I pencil you in for Thursday afternoon?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So its my birthday tomorrow and I wanted to update this story because I haven't touched it since the end of August! I finally have good news: that toadstool of a neighbor who gave me the heaps of anxiety that made me start writing this fic will finally be moving away!

"Neither of us is supposed to be here," Mal said.

Eames didn't make a comment about location because it couldn't be more obvious that Mal meant "lingering on the physical plane" rather than "walking on the beach". 

"Why haven't you gone into the Light yet?"

Eames glanced over sharply at her tone of voice. "I could ask you the same thing. You've been dead longer than I have."

"Things...things are complicated," Mal admitted. "What's tying me here isn't just the violence of my death or my wish to remain for my family."

"Cobb might not have made it easier. Did you know the messes he kept making for Arthur? The projection he had of you was horrifying."

Mal looked away from Eames, choosing to look at the waves as they stood on the beach.

"...did you have something to do with that?"

"It wasn't a proud moment for me," Mal began. "I'm sure you've already noticed that you can enter dreams, yes? Its almost like living again. And Dominic would dream about me living, about our family being together. It was tempting to keep coming back, to sink my fingers into the frail dream structures and the memories he visited and revisited. I could hold onto myself that way, I could stay close to him and I didn't have to worry over the nonsense about entering the Light."

Eames reached for her, shocked by the sensation. She was as solid as he wished Arthur was. He reached for her arm and squeezed too tightly but Mal said nothing about the pain. "Your presence didn't help with his shade of you, did it? You spurred it on, it clung to Cobb as tightly as you did." Eames's eyes narrowed. "His image of you hurt Arthur very badly. His image of you nearly got all of us stuck in Limbo. What do you have to say about that?"

Eames purposefully wasn't asking how many shared dreams it took for her shade to appear in Cobb's mind. Perhaps it lurked there anyway, maybe none of that was to blame for the manifestation of Cobb's guilt over his wife's suicide?

"If you were careful and didn't do it very often, you might get away with visiting Arthur's dreams," Mal said cautiously.

Eames shook his head, not willing to consider entering Arthur's dreams willingly. The first time had been a freak accident! "I'd rather not if it comes with these sorts of risks. I see him every day. I speak to him. He can see me, Mal. Did you know that he can do that?"

She shook her head. "A new skill for darling Arthur," Mal said, considering it. "What would I do? Appear to him and accidentally give him a heart attack? Or worse, make him believe he has a shade of me?"

"I don't think that will happen," Eames tried to reassure her. "Arthur's gotten pretty good at handling ghosts. As long as I've been around, I've given him a hand dealing with all of them. It's the least I can do..."

Mal took his hand in hers. "But don't you think about it? Moving on?"

At first Eames didn't answer. But slowly, as if the words were being dragged out of him, Eames admitted it. "I've just been tired I guess. Frustrated. I stayed behind, I appeared to Arthur not realizing it would be him, you know? At first I was pleased to have a second chance, but the longer I stay and the more I interact with Arthur, the more I realize that I make him sad. I think he worries the longer I remain here."

But Eames gestured out to the ocean he kept manifesting closer and closer to each time he came to this place to walk. "But the choices I have are becoming clearer. I don't want to go back to where my remains are. I don't want to linger on the sea floor where my bones lie."

Mal was reassuring. "Are you frightened of taking the next step?"

Eames didn't have to verbalize it. Who wasn't afraid of what came next? It was the great unknown for a reason, damn it. His consciousness, his awareness, gave it a frightening dimension that he was still struggling with.

Eames cleared his throat and began to think out loud. "If I wasn't so worried about being trapped out there, I'd come up with some way to go but manage to come back. I could hop on a boat that's heading out to sea. I might not sink through the vessel. I might not be trapped in the water. But I don't want to leave Arthur behind. Especially not when he needs my help."

They watched the ocean, the crashing of the waves and the calling of the gulls breaking what could have been an uncomfortable silence. They were still holding hands.

"Are you going to go to him?" Eames asked Mal.

Mal tightened her grip and briefly nodded. "It might be time."

And because Eames was Eames, he had to inject a little humor into the so serious conversation.

"You're lucky he has room in his schedule this week to meet with another ghost client. Can I pencil you in for Thursday afternoon?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur rolled the die once. Then again. The acrylic cube clattered against the nightstand as Arthur rolled three after three.
> 
> "She's dead," Arthur said, his voice even but his fingers unintentionally dropping the die for a fourth time. It still came up as three. "I mean. I know she's dead. I went to her funeral. I've seen Cobb's projection of her. But if she's still here..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planning on getting this wrapped up before my next semester starts in a week. If I'm very good the final chapter will be posted tomorrow or the next day.

When Eames returned, he manifested briefly in Arthur's bedroom. He was checking up on Artur to see if Arthur was okay. But he was also checking up on Arthur because he wanted to. There was something sincerely soothing about seeing the point man resting. Eames stood at Arthur's bedside for several moments, already weighing if he should take advantage his new found knowledge about sharing dreams without a PASIV or just wait for Arthur to wake up when the sun started to shine through the blinds.

Eames was indecisive with good cause. Why would he risk it if this type of dreamsharing would only lead to some warped manifestation of his image prowling around Arthur's subconscious? Though Mal didn't say it outright, Eames could guess that many of the physical differences between the living and the dead didn't matter in dreams. Before when Eames appeared in the dream he hadn't even thought of trying to touch the point man reloading his gun behind that table.

If he entered Arthur's dreams again, he might have that chance. Even if it was only once before he made a decision. He'd have to talk to Arthur about it. He'd have to talk to Arthur about all of it-but first he would have to be upfront and honest about Mal. She was the priority. Eames...well, Eames was just going to have to wait.

The choice was taken from him once Arthur began to wake up.

* * *

 

Opening his eyes slowly, Arthur didn't need extra time to look around his familiar room to orient himself. He was awake, this was reality. He looked up at Eames, who had pointedly not said anything yet.

"Are you doing wake up calls now?"

Eames was still quietly standing at Arthur's bed, expression unreadable.

"Is something wrong, Eames?" Arthur asked firmly. He was already shoving the blankets away, getting out of bed. Eames politely took a few steps away so Arthur didn't accidentally step through him.

"I learned something today. It's Mal," Eames said. "She's still here."

Arthur reached for his totem and squeezed it in his fist. He moved to roll it on the nightstand and he didn't even have to say anything to Eames. Eames had already turned away when Arthur had grabbed the die.

Arthur rolled the die once. Then again. The acrylic cube clattered against the nightstand as Arthur rolled _three_ after _three_.

"She's dead," Arthur said, his voice even but his fingers unintentionally dropping the die for a fourth time. It still came up as _three._ "I mean. I know she's dead. I went to her funeral. I've seen Cobb's projection of her. But if she's still _here._.."

Arthur moved the die to the pocket of his sweatpants just so he'd stop rolling it like a headcase. "She must not have gone into the Light."

Eames nodded. "I ran into her while I was out and about, Arthur. She wants to move on. She knows that she should have left earlier but  there were things keeping her here."

Arthur knew what Eames was talking about. He'd seen it enough himself when he'd go searching for the dead client's information, realizing that sometimes their issues went much deeper what led to their deaths. Sometimes it was all about who they left behind. "Oh god," Arthur said to himself. "Dom and the kids."

"I spoke to her myself. She admits that she lingered because of the children, Cobb, and the manner of her death. It's best if you speak to her yourself. I told her to try on Thursday, but if you need more time I'll reach her."

"No, no. Sooner will probably be better. I'll have to figure out what I'm going to tell Cobb. He's going to think I'm crazy, Eames!"

Eames rolled his eyes. "No, I don't think he has the right to say that after the way his subconscious treated you. He was mad with grief and guilt. You're just trying to deal with this as logically as possible."

But even as Arthur was trying to figure out what his next steps should be, he paused what he was doing to look at Eames seriously.

"Are you okay? I mean, thank you for telling me about Mal, really. But is something else wrong? Is something bothering you?"

This was a direct enough question, Arthur thought. The only way it could be clearer would be if he asked about Eames's disappearances or his long silences.

Eames smiled for Arthur and waved his hand, as if he could brush aside his issues. "It can wait till this is taken care of, honestly. Everything's fine."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm the reason why it isn't happening. I'm digging my heels in and not allowing it to. Each time I go out for some air or to give you and a client some space, I've been appearing closer and closer to the beach. To the ocean." Eames swallowed hard, but continued. "I've been catching glimpses of the Light, but it scares me to think about what's next."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to have a much longer, sort of depressing author's note here. Ugh, almost a month ago when I promised I'd have the next chapter out soon, the author's note was almost a page long! It was a page of me rehashing the bs that made me write the story to begin with, the anxiety that drove me to continue writing on nights when I couldn't sleep, and the full-blown anxiety attacks I would experience after any altercation with my jackass of a neighbor who was finally evicted at the end of the last semester.
> 
> *I wrote this fairly quickly because the last three times I tried to get this posted this month have ended with me deleting it or saving everything to a word document. There are errors. There are always errors, but I will fix them later.*

Arthur hadn't spoken to ghosts for very long, but he'd developed a system for dealing with it. He acted like the ghosts were his clients, that the things they wanted him to do or help them with were a part of any job. Relating the sudden medium thing with his chosen profession of point man helped.

But it was a little disturbing to have two people he previously knew from dreamshare appear to him as ghosts.

Arthur was actively not thinking about the things Eames wasn't willing to say yet. He had to focus on Mal.

Arthur, dressed down for Mal because he didn't want to wear another of his impersonal suits, waited patiently for her to appear where Eames had politely told her to. Thursday afternoon in Arthur's kitchen. He wanted a private setting for this.

"It will be okay," he told himself. He looked at his tea, but hadn't even taken a sip. It had enough sweetener and the used tea bag had already been thrown out. The tea was the perfect temperature.

He resisted the urge to take the spoon sitting next to his mug and needlessly stir his tea while he sat at the table

Then he picked up the spoon and started stirring the tea needlessly anyway. It had been so long since he needed to give himself a pep talk before meeting with a ghost, he wanted to _do_ something as he spoke.

"This isn't the first time you've done this," Arthur said to himself. "It only feels different since you knew her when she was alive."

He removed the spoon from the tea and let it clatter back onto the table. The empty pages of his Moleskine now had little droplets of tea on it, but Arthur didn't care. It would still serve its purpose and give Arthur something to write notes on during his conversation with Mal.

"Relax," Eames said as he appeared within a few feet of Arthur, unannounced. "Do you need me to tell you that you're the best? That you'll handle everything perfectly?"

Arthur sighed. "No. But thank you for offering."

"What's on your mind, Arthur?"

Arthur turned in his seat to look at Eames. "I'm not sure Cobb will take the news very well. He's been doing better since the inception. I thought he was finally ready to move on."

"Being back with the children and having his name cleared definitely helped."

"So Cobb got the catharsis he needed after trying to pull Saito out of Limbo."

"He managed it somehow. He ended up making peace with what happened to Mal. But Mal hasn't had that chance."

Eames had moved closer to Arthur. "And you'll give her that chance. It will be fine."

"It's time," Arthur said, pushing his tea away.

"I'll give you two some privacy," Eames said.

And Eames vanished.

* * *

Either she had perfect timing or Eames had given her the all clear.

She appeared to Arthur, resting her hand on the back of the second chair placed next to the kitchen table.

Arthur placed one hand against his knee, waiting for something. Maybe like a twinge or an echo or some kind of watered down version of phantom pain as he remembered the shade of Mal shooting out his knee.

But Arthur felt nothing. He had hoped that this Mal would be much different than the shade he would encounter in dreams shared with Cobb. It had been so long since he’d seen a version of Mal who looked so well put together and calm. He had to stop himself from saying it aloud, so he thought it instead. _She’s still lovely_.

Arthur swallowed hard and got right to business.

“Since we already know each other, I don’t have to run around or do the research about your family or the events related to your death. I know what happened. So I have to ask this question: why do you think you’re still here, Mal?”

It was a decent question to ask. Sometimes ghosts who found their way to him already knew what would help them move on. They spoke to Arthur not only because he could hear and see them, but because he could help connect them to their still living loved ones, could do the digging to bring their killers to justice, or provide closure. Arthur was certain that Mal would want closure.

She smiled at him as if she could read every thought that crossed his mind.

“I have a unique opportunity to right a wrong here, don’t I?”

“Dom’s name has been cleared,” Arthur told her. “It took an inception and saving our tourist from Limbo to do it, but Cobb managed it. He gave up his share of the money for the job, he nearly got us killed in Fischer’s subconscious, but I’m sure that you’ve been able to piece together some of what happened even if you weren’t there to see it.” Then Arthur shrugged. “But since I couldn’t see dead people before or during the Fischer job you could have been there. No, don’t tell me,” Arthur said, waving his hand and gesturing for her to please sit down.

“I’m just rambling a bit now,” Arthur explained. “This is just so strange...”

“No stranger than having Eames with you, though.”

“I’m focusing on you right now, Mal.”

“I want to move on,” Mal said, moving to the point. “Dom’s name may have been cleared, he may have experienced some kind of catharsis of his own, but I still want to have the chance to apologize to him for what I did.”

“Dom never wanted to talk about it with me,” Arthur admitted. “He just kept trying to clear his name and get home.”

“Then it looks like we'll both have a second chance, yes?"

* * *

 

There was generally no easy way to break the news. So after calling up Dominic Cobb and mentioning that he had to talk to him about something, Arthur, with Mal in tow, arrived at the house prepared for an awkward conversation. The only benefit of getting it done on a Thursday afternoon was that the children would still be in school.

“I might have liked to see the children one last time,” Mal said as they waited in front of what used to be her doorway.

“When you see the Light it’s up to you if you want to go immediately,” Arthur said, already thinking of the times he’d noticed ghosts lingering after the first glimmers of the Light appeared. He didn’t have a chance to say that as the door opened.

“Hey!” Cobb was saying, all smiles and bright-eyes. Arthur waited through Cobb's hug- only one arm, a few mild pats against the back- before Arthur was released to follow Cobb further inside the house. Mal followed after, not hesitating as the door was shut in her face. There was some benefit to being able to walk through solid objects.

“It feels like it’s been forever, Arthur,” Cobb was saying as he led the way into the living room. Arthur could see the patio through the windows, and hoped that this wouldn’t be as difficult as his past conversations.

"Why don't we sit," Arthur was already saying, trying to steer the conversation, and get Cobb seated before the talk really began.

* * *

 

"- and she says that she's sorry for what happened before her death," Arthur patiently repeated after Mal. She was standing just behind Arthur's spot on the couch, looking at Cobb who sat across from him on a nearby chair.

"Framing you, attempting to get you to commit suicide with her..." Arthur said. He found himself resting his hands against his knees and attempting to look anywhere but at Cobb's teary face. He just never got used to the crying. It was worse with someone he knew. "She's sorry, Cobb, and she wanted to apologize before moving on."

"Very good," Mal said softly, finding the time in her last moments seeing Dominic Cobb to offer some praise to Arthur. If she could actually touch Arthur, she might have paired the praise with a reassuring pat on Arthur's shoulder.

Cobb was using his sleeve to brush at his face. He didn't have a tissues anywhere in sight and Arthur didn't carry portable Kleenex with him for these occasions.

"She's- she's standing right behind you," Cobb was saying again, for the fourth, maybe the fifth time, finally not just asking for Arthur to confirm her location. Cobb was getting it, he understood. In all of Arthur's days spent dealing with ghosts and the living they wanted him to find, Cobb's reaction was almost refreshing.

"Yes, Cobb," Arthur said. "She's right there- wait, she's moving."

Mal had moved from behind the couch to a foot away from Cobb. Cobb froze and waited for Arthur to update him. He was looking right through her, didn't feel it as she hesitantly reached out to try and touch Cobb's cheek.

The gesture sent Arthur back to the moment way back when Eames stood in his kitchen and watched Arthur cry. He'd managed to offer Arthur the paper towels, but there was something about physical contact with the living and breathing that stopped him from offering the comfort he wanted to at the time. And Mal wouldn't be able to touch Cobb either, just like Eames couldn't before.

"Where is she?" Cobb was asking as Mal failed to touch him.

"She's standing in front of you," Arthur said. "Don't jump up, Cobb. Don't move forwards. Just sit and listen."

"It's really over," Mal was saying to Cobb. "We grew old together in Limbo, so it will have to be enough for me now." Then Mal looked outside, through the window that looked out on the yard. She said to Arthur, "I can see it."

"Cobb, say goodbye to her," Arthur said.

He did. There were more tears. And then she was gone.

Arthur wasn't sure if she'd linger to see the children before she left for good. He wouldn't want to witness that. It would cut too close.

* * *

 

Eames manifested at Arthur's side as he walked to the car alone. Cobb had stayed in the house. He'd said goodbye, hugged Arthur again, and needlessly promised to not say anything about Arthur being able to see ghosts. Arthur was grateful for both the promise and the chance to clear his head once leaving.

Eames said nothing for a minute, his soundless footsteps in time with Arthur's.

"I take it went well," Eames said.

Arthur could have said many things in response to that, but there was something about seeing off another ghost, having to repeat her final words to her former husband, that made Arthur willing to ask his question again.

They reached the car. Arthur unlocked the driver's side door and Eames appeared in the front passenger seat without assistance. Once he closed the door, Arthur's said, "It did, but I think you have something to tell me now."

Now in the quiet of the car, Eames looked at Arthur.

"I've stayed because our time was cut short. I've stayed because after my death, I wanted to remember who I used to be."

Arthur wasn't going to interrupt him. He was going to patiently wait for him to say what he needed to. What he'd pushed aside so Mal could have her moment.

"So I've tried to help you while I'm here, but I've been pulled away more often then not. And sometimes I see something that looks a lot like the Light...but I haven't gone, obviously."

"Something's still keeping you here."

 _Not me_ , Arthur thought, clenching his fist then forcing himself to relax.

"I'm the reason why it isn't happening. I'm digging my heels in and not allowing it to. Each time I go out for some air or to give you and a client some space, I've been appearing closer and closer to the beach. To the ocean." Eames swallowed hard, but continued. "I've been catching glimpses of the Light, but it scares me to think about what's next."

"That's natural," Arthur answered.

"I don't know if I'm really ready to go yet," Eames said quickly, his eyes wide. "I'm using you like an excuse for why I can't go. I can't keep doing this to you, darling."

Arthur knew that there was something else.

"So I'm telling you this now, Arthur," Eames said. "I was so happy to find you again. I was happy to help you. But soon, I'm going to go. I know in the beginning I said you didn't have to, that it wasn't a priority, but when I'm gone you'll find what little I remember about it..."

Arthur didn't have to ask for more information. He knew. A decent burial, maybe also bringing his killers to justice. Later, Eames would really be a client. 

But not yet.

"We've still got a little time, then," Arthur answered Eames. He cleared his throat and fought off the urge to reach out and touch the ghost in the front seat next to him. "Let's just go for a drive. We'll listen to the radio."

"Thank you, darling," Eames said. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, letting Arthur just drive them away from Cobb's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story is officially over. This isn't the ending I thought of a few months ago, but its good enough for me. It's done because I just can't bring myself to write it anymore. 
> 
> It's not super sad, Eames hasn't moved on yet, but he reaches a point where he will not only move on later, but allow Arthur to do what he can to provide closure for himself by at least finding Eames's remains or getting him justice.
> 
> Thanks for dealing with the long wait, I hope people still enjoyed it!


End file.
